


Gone Fishing

by IamJohnLocked4life



Category: Howard Holmes, Sheldon Reynolds Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1954 TV series)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Domesticity, Guns, Howard Holmes series, M/M, Pipes - Freeform, Rods, Sheldon Reynolds Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes (1954 TV series) - Freeform, as befits this show, blatant subtext of all kinds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 09:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8199611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life
Summary: During our weekly watchalongs, lovetheinsane expressed a desire for fic from the 1954 "Howard Holmes" TV series. After scouring the internet, I found that indeed, there was none. This is an attempt to remedy that dreadful state of affairs.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovetheinsane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetheinsane/gifts).



 

“Ready, Holmes?”

Watson bursts through the door, all boyish exuberance and anticipation, but the man in question remains seated at the window, back turned to him, unresponsive. He’s bent over something or other, most likely a dangerous experiment, the daft bugger. Ah well, nothing can tarnish Watson’s mood this morning. He strides over to his companion and drops his tackle box in his lap. Holmes blinks down at it for a moment, then looks up at Watson, brow wrinkled in confusion. Undeterred, the good doctor tries again. 

“I say, old chap, are you ready?”

“Ready?”

Really, the detective is unusually slow this morning, but no matter. Onward to glory and all that.  

“Ready for our expedition, of course!” Watson beams down at him. “Fishing, yes?” He waggles the rods in his hand in Holmes’ direction.

“Fishing…” Holmes’ eyes are soft, unfocussed, the sort of look he gets when he’s puzzling over a cipher or confronted with a particularly vexing locked room mystery. Watson tries not to find it endearing, and thoroughly fails.

“Ah, yes, fishing!” Holmes blinks again, clearing away the cobwebs of whatever flight of fancy he had taken. “You’ll forgive me, my dear boy, I’m afraid I have become a bit distracted this morning. You see, I was having trouble sleeping, as is my nature. I awoke just past four with such vigour that I could not fall back asleep, and so decided to get an early start on my day. After finishing my comparative analysis of white and red phosphorus match tips, and planning and cooking the morning’s meal, I decided to clean your service revolver while I waited for you to rise, and I suppose I lost track of the time.”

“My revolver?”

Watson follows Holmes’ gaze to the gun in his hands. Odd that he hadn’t noticed it when he came in, but then he was brimming with vim and excitement for the day’s activities. As he watches, those long, slender fingers stroke over the shining steel barrel, curling and caressing. A blush rises to his cheeks, but he can not avert his eyes from the sensuous ministrations being lavished upon his Adams revolver. Slowly, Holmes slides the firearm up his thigh, thumb tracing the curves of the worn wood grip, following the taut muscle from knee to hip. At last he lets it settle on Watson’s tackle box, still nestled tight in the V of his legs. All the air has left the room, the bright, cheery aura of the coming adventure turned hot and tense. Not unpleasant, mind, but less friendly, more electric. The suspense is killing Watson. He wants it to last forever.  

Holmes lifts his other hand from where it had hung by his side, bringing the bristly rod of his pipe cleaner into view. He moves it toward the piece in his lap, and Watson sucks in a sharp breath. 

“Holmes! You can’t use your pipe cleaner for such a chore. I have a full gun cleaning kit in my dresser, just give me a moment and I’ll--” He leans the fishing rods against the window sill and turns to go, but is stopped by the barrel of his own gun at his waist.

“Unnecessary.” The cool metal cylinder drifts down below his waistcoat, just brushing the front of his flies before it falls away. Watson tries to swallow against the sudden dryness in his throat.

“I’m afraid I have already used my pipe cleaner on your revolver. Many times.” Holmes brings brush and barrel to meet, circling the rim of the muzzle, toying with the tip. It is quiet enough to hear the light scritch-scratch of fibres on steel. He slips the rod into the hole, slides it deep into the chamber, and it is suddenly much too warm in their sitting room. Watson clears his throat.

“Have you?” His voice is more croak than question.

“Mmm, yes. I enjoy the way it flavours my tobacco…” Holmes lifts the pipe cleaner to his nose. “That hint of gun oil and smoke.” He runs the bristles over his top lip, inhales deeply, lets out an indecent sound of pleasure. “Intoxicating.”

A light sweat has broken out over Watson’s brow and upper lip. He quickly wipes it away, smoothing the excess moisture into his whiskers and distractedly curling the ends as he attempts to gather his composure.

“But… but Holmes. Surely, that isn’t safe, inhaling such fumes.”

“Perhaps not, Doctor.” He rises with preternatural grace, letting the tackle box fall to the floor with a dull clatter. “But when have either of us ever cared for safe?” They hold each other’s gaze for a long, breathless moment, then Holmes twirls away, tossing the revolver over his shoulder for Watson to catch with fumbling hands. The brilliant madman crosses to the fireplace and plucks his pipe from the mantle.

“Watson, bring me my slippers.”

“Slippers?”

“Yes, the Persian ones.”

Watson casts about for the slippers, absently tucking the pistol into his pocket. He spies them under the settee, and hurries to retrieve them for his mercurial flatmate.

“Just the left one.”

Watson pauses, a slipper in each hand. “Just the left?”

“Good heavens, man, are your ears malfunctioning this morning? Yes, the left, bring it here.”

With a long-suffering sigh, he drops the right slipper back on the floor and dutifully delivers the other to Holmes’ waiting hand. Holmes snatches it from him impatiently and retrieves a small pouch of snuff from the toe of the proffered footwear. He packs the pipe with expert efficiency and swipes a match from the small pile on his worktable, evidently the remnants of his abandoned pre-dawn experiment. He strikes it against the fireplace and grins as it bursts into flame.

“Don’t worry, old fellow, the red phosphorous matches are entirely safe.” He winks at that last word, as if sharing some private joke, then brings the match to pipe and pipe to mouth. Watson tries not to stare as those playfully curved lips wrap around the business end of the pipe and begin to suck. Holmes lets out a satisfied puff of smoke, managing to form a perfect ring and extinguish the match in one go.

“Ah, there it is.” That impish smile Watson knows so well makes an appearance on his friend’s face, and his own lips can’t help but tick up in return. “A light bouquet of gun oil and powder residue.” He takes another contemplative puff, blowing the smoke ring directly at Watson. “The taste of danger.”

He flips the pipe around and offers it to his companion. “Go on, have a try.” Watson narrows his eyes and tries to look unimpressed. Of course, the genius detective can see right through the flimsy façade of disinterest, and brings the pipe closer to his lips. “You know you want to.” 

Curse it all, he does. His curiosity is piqued, a familiar response to the man in front of him, and he resignedly opens his mouth, allowing Holmes access. He meets that capricious gaze as he closes his lips around the mouthpiece and inhales, and yes, he _can_ taste the lingering vestiges of gunpowder, the scent bringing back fragments from a war many years and thousands of miles away. Funny how life with this man makes the battlefield seem closer than ever.

“You see.”

It’s a statement, not a query, and indeed he does. He also knows that Holmes, in turn, can see everything, see the memories flitting through his mind as clearly as clouds in the sky. He closes his eyes and exhales.

“Yes, a slight fragrance of oil and powder, as you said.” There’s a beat of silence, and Watson can feel the air quality shift as Holmes retreats, withdrawing hand and pipe from their close proximity to his face. He opens his eyes to find Holmes grinning at him, the pipe jauntily clamped in the corner of his mouth. The pipe that had just been in _his_ mouth, and in Holmes’ before that. _Oh_.

As if reading his thoughts, Holmes shifts the pipe, puckering his lips around the mouthpiece and sucking deeply. Watson licks his own lips, unconsciously seeking any hint of the mouth currently enveloping that pipe in a rather lewd manner. Holmes raises his eyebrows, bringing Watson’s awareness to his wandering tongue and what its appearance might imply. Certainly _would_ imply, to the world’s only consulting detective. He looks away, face flushing.

“So…” Holmes ventures, breaking the tenuous silence before it can turn uncomfortable.

“So.” Watson risks a look at him, and finds his face warm and open. Inviting.

“Fishing?”

“Yes! Yes, fishing. I, uh, have taken the liberty of renting us a cabin for the weekend. Very remote.” He takes a deep breath, and gives Holmes a meaningful look. “No one but us for miles.”

Holmes’s eyes glow with mischief, a delighted grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, well done, Watson, well done. How perceptive of you.”

Watson beams at the praise. “I am glad you’re amenable to my plans.”

Holmes moves closer, leans into his space.

“Quite amenable.”

Watson claps his hands together, rubs them with anxious enthusiasm. “Shall we then?”

Holmes frowns and takes a half-step back. “What, now?” 

“Yes, let’s be off right away. Not a moment to lose.” 

“But I made you breakfast!” Holmes looks at the table, beautifully set for two, with a full three-course meal laid out on silver platters. “Surely we can have breakfast first?” His lips purse slightly, verging on a pout. Watson smiles, an indulgent twinkle in his eye.

“Of course we can, dear boy. Of course.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) ~ Please say hi, I love to chat!


End file.
